


Netflix and Chill(ed Yogurt)

by mildlyproductivetrashbag



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Hellstrop, Introspection, netflix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-28
Updated: 2019-04-28
Packaged: 2020-02-09 07:35:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,112
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18633691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildlyproductivetrashbag/pseuds/mildlyproductivetrashbag
Summary: Michael can't stop thinking about Eleanor. Janet helps out by suggesting he distract himself with Netflix; it helps, but at the same time it doesn't.





	Netflix and Chill(ed Yogurt)

**Author's Note:**

> I used to ship Chidi and Eleanor, but then the scene where Eleanor and Michael talked about free will happened, and now I'm a complete Hellstrop stan.
> 
> also if the fic feels kinda awkward and stilted, apologies! i haven't written anything in months, so i'm a bit rusty. trying to get back into the writing mood is. hard.

Eleanor Shellstrop is not unique.  
  
It's not an insult, Michael thinks, as he closes his eyes and leans back in his chair. It's just a statement of fact. She's just another one of the seven billion humans populating Earth. Of that seven billion, there's thousands of other humans who are just as terrible (if not more so) than her. Thousand of jerk-ass humans who had just as much capacity for change as she did.  
  
So no, she wasn't unique or special in any way.

At least initially.

The only thing that differentiated her from them was the fact that she actually changed. They all had the chance to do so, but it was only Eleanor (stubborn, determined, _amazing_ , Eleanor, his mind interjects irritatingly) who actually did something about how much of an asshole she was. Granted, it took the knowledge of the afterlife, an ethics professor, two other humans, and the threat of eternal damnation to get her to take action, but hey- Who cares about the small details? The important thing is that in the end, she tried and succeeded to become a better person.   
  
It wasn't as if it had been _easy._ Eleanor had literally everything going against her.   
  
And when Michael says everything, he truly does mean everything. He threw every obstacle, every problem, every trick in the torture book, against her. If there was a way to torment her, Michael used it. Every single one of her weaknesses and flaws were dragged to the surface and stacked against her. He didn't pull his punches, and by all logic she should have crumbled like a badly built Jenga tower. It should have been, quite simply, impossible for her to improve.  
  
But this was Eleanor Shellstrop, and she showed him that impossible was not a word in her vocabulary.  
  
Against all odds, she changed. 802 reboots, and in every single one (the ones that lasted long enough, at least) she put herself on the path of good all on her own. It was in different ways every time, but the end result was the same. In each reboot, Michael did his damnedest to make her afterlife hell, but he also watched as she grew and learned and improved in spite of it all.

It was frustrating.  
  
It was impressive.  
  
But above all, it was fascinating.  
  
There was something about her, that he could never tire of watching. Oh sure, the others were just as frustrating in their efforts to better themselves (Jason was both a delight and a terror to watch) but they didn't have the same... spark that Eleanor did.   
  
She was in a category all on her own, and Michael didn't understand what it was that made her so special. He'd gone over this dozens of times (honestly he's lost count of how many times he thought about the Dilemma that was Eleanor), digging deep through her files and desperately searching for something to explain... well to explain her in all her unpredictability.  
  
Every time he came up blank.  
  
Eleanor Shellstrop was just your regular, boring, run-of-the-mill, human.  
  
And yet she was extraordinary.  
  
In his entire several thousand years of existence, he had never come across a more frustrating mortal.  
  
If this had been a few days ago, he would have called her existence a curse, a bane on his immortal life, and he would have meant it completely.  
  
Now though... Now he's not sure. He's not sure of anything anymore, except maybe that Eleanor was starting to mess with his damned head.  
  
He drew in a sharp breath, disturbing the stillness of his office. This was the first time he's had any time to himself since Vicky had the gall to blackmail him. And of course, he would spend it thinking about Eleanor. Because that was just how pathetic he was nowadays.  
  
It was all her fault (obviously. who else could it be? him? definitely not.) How could he not think of her after her attitude earlier? She just had to go and be amazing and aggressive and brilliant, didn't she? All the others had easily agreed to his offer of teaming up after he spoke, but her? Nope- she had to go and question everything first. Had to get up all in his face with that scarily gorgeous face of hers and threaten him.  
  
Great. Now he can't even think of her negatively without paying her a compliment. The day was just getting better and better.  
  
He needed a distraction. Something, anything, so long as it keeps him from thinking too much. The logical part of his mind tells him that this is absolutely a classic Shellstrop move (as Eleanor would say, and damn it he's thinking of her again- _it would be nice if he could stop doing that-_ ) which means it will do nothing to help him, and will probably make things worse.  
  
Yep he's definitely ignoring that logical bit of his brain.  
  
"Janet?" He calls out as he opens his eyes.  
  
The neighborhood consciousness appears with a smile and the familiar boop which heralds her arrival.  
  
"What can I do for you Michael?"  
  
"What do humans do to distract themselves?" Humans were the great procrastinators, so they must have some good ideas. No other race could put off doing anything better than them.  
  
"That depends on the state of distraction that you want," she states cheerfully, "Do you want a light state where you can immediately resume your previous tasks afterwards?" A book appears in her hand. "Or would you prefer something more along the lines of ignoring a current task to help relax?" A laptop with a playing video drops on top of the book. "Or an intense I-don't-want-to-remember-the-last-ten-hours sort of distraction?" Finally, several bottles of alcohol appear and somehow manage to be perfectly balanced on top of the laptop.  
  
Michael blinks. The last one is tempting, but he doubts Vicky would approve of him getting inebriated and possibly spilling any secrets. He has to care about her opinion now that it actually matters, he thinks acidly.  
  
"I'll uh, I'll go with the second option."   
  
"Excellent!" Everything disappears from her hands, and a TV appears in front of her instead.  
  
"This," she pats the top of the TV, "is connected to every channel and every tv provider to ever exist from the beginning of time until the present. It can also show any movie, series, animation, and various other types of media; just state your preference out loud."  
  
She smiles and turns back to Michael. "Can I help with anything else?"  
  
"No," he says, eager to wipe his mind blank, "Thank you."  
  
When he switches open the TV, a somewhat familiar logo appears. He almost mistakes it for The Bad Place version called Tenflix (it only shows the top ten worst TV series of all time- in 144p), and manages to suppress a shudder. He's so sick of watching reruns of Baywatch. Thank god it's only Netflix.  
  
One day, multiple series, numerous movies, and about 7 tubs of frozen yogurt later, he's taking back his thanks. What started out as a simple distraction has now become an all-consuming void which has sucked him in and refuses to let go. It's more dangerous than IHOP.  
  
He was just starting on his eighth tub of yogurt when there was knocking on his door. If knocking was defined as extremely loud banging on a surface, then yes. There was knocking. A lot of it.  
  
He would have stood up, but the warmth and comfort of his chair coupled with the blanket around his shoulders made a very compelling argument against the prospect of actually facing his responsibilities. So he did what any self-respecting demon would do.  
  
He ignored the knocking.  
  
Ten seconds (precisely, he counted) passed. Then: " _MICHAEL WHERE THE FORKING HECK HAVE-_ " a very familiar voice yelled, and Michael was so shocked that he just... fell out of his chair. And dropped his tub of yogurt. Then fell into the yogurt, ruining his favorite shirt.  
  
"...you...been..." Eleanor trailed off, blinking rapidly at the sight she was greeted with. They stared at each other for several seconds, unsure exactly of how to react.  
  
Then Eleanor burst into laughter. As in the, full blown, doubled over, can barely breathe, kind of laughter. Michael just sighed and settled into the puddle of yogurt, completely resigned to his fate. So this was what humiliation felt like.  
  
"Holy shirt," Eleanor wheezed, " _Holy shirt_. You should have seen the look on your face. I wish I could have taken a photo!" She slapped her thigh as she continued to laugh.   
  
It took her a full two minutes to finally calm herself enough to be able to talk normally again; two minutes of which Michael spent marinating in cold product. It's not as disgusting as one would expect. It's- It's pretty comfy, actually, once you ignore the dampness. Oh, and the fact that his dignity has taken a nosedive and is now practically non-existent. not that much of it existed in the first place.  
  
Eleanor, in a rare display of pity, (mock-pity, but pity nonetheless) stoops down to offer him her hand. Michael takes it, taking no small amount of satisfaction in smearing melted yogurt all over her palm. Petty, of course, but he's a demon. That excuses it, right?  
  
(Hint: It doesn't)  
  
"Oh come on ya big lump," Eleanor pulls him up forcefully, ignoring the way her clothes are getting stained, "Stop moping."  
  
"I'm not moping," he insists, but she just rolls her eyes.   
  
"Yeah, yeah." Ignoring his protests completely, she sets him down back in his swivel chair. He clamps his arms together and glares at her like a child. There is no heat in his gaze however, and Eleanor takes it all in stride.  
  
"Hilarious as it is to see you like this," she gestures towards his ruined clothing, "we should probably get you cleaned up." She smiles at him, and his heart skips a beat.  
  
Fuck. He's hopeless.  
  
He stares at her for a moment too long, and she raises an eyebrow at him.   
  
"What? Do I have something on my face? Aw shirt, did I get your stupid yogurt on my-" she wipes frantically at her cheeks with her sleeves.  
  
Michael grabs her arm, gently, and gets her to stop. "No, you're fine! Great! Your face is great!- I mean,no, it's not-"  
  
"My face isn't great?"  
  
"No, it's beautif-" Yep, he's stopping that thought right there, "I mean- I mean..." If the ground could kindly swallow him whole right now, that would be fantastic.  
  
Eleanor stares at him blankly as he continues to dig himself further into what he assumes is an early grave. Either he'll die of shame (an impressive feat for a demon), or Eleanor will kill him out of impatience.  
  
Fortunately for him, neither of those things happen. Instead, she claps a hand against his forehead and ask, "You okay there dude? Are you sick? Wait, do demons even get sick? Do you get hell fevers? Oooh, maybe hell pneumonia?" she wrinkles her nose, "On second thought,maybe not. That sounds disgusting."  
  
Her ramble gives him enough time to gather his wits. "No- No, Eleanor. We don't get sick. Not in the way you know at least."  
  
"Mm. Okay," she shrugs, "Anyway. Back to you."   
  
"Right. Well, there's no need to make this whole song and dance about it. I can just do this," he snaps his fingers, and he's back in his regular, clean clothes again.  
  
"Oh. Yeah. Kinda forgot about that." For some indecipherable reason, she actually looks disappointed. But she quickly recovers and goes back to smiling again. "Well then, now that that's cleared up," she grabs his wrist and pulls him out of the chair. There's a lot of strength in that deceptively small frame, enough to make him physically stumble as she drags him out the door of his office.  
  
"Hey- What the-" he protests, but the attempt is half-hearted at the best.   
  
"Don't think I forgot about you promising to go to Chidi's ethics class with me!" she throws him a mock glare over her shoulder, "If you think I'm going to suffer through another one of those classes alone- Then you've got another thing coming buddy."  
  
Michael sighs internally. This is what his eternal life has come to. Being bossed around by one, tiny, stubborn, insignificant human.  
  
But, he thinks, as he sits beside her in her Icelandic-fashioned house and watches her argue passionately with Chidi while Tahani and Jason watch on in amusement-   
  
It's not really as bad as he makes it out to be.  
  
This could be the start of something good.


End file.
